As you read this post, please turn on the song "Glamorous" by Fergie, and listen to it in the background as you read. If you don't have it, just hum it to yourself. If you can't hum and read at the same time, just think about it as you read. Because you guys? My life in Libraryland lately? It's The Flossy, Flossy. Let me prove it to you.

First of all, what does it say about me that I find the word "librarian" hard to type? I always mess it up and type librrian or librarin or liabriar. It's like I'm typing along, perfectly normal, and then I get to the word that describes my very own profession and my hands have a spasm of...excitement? dread? electricity? I don't know what it is. (Are you humming "Glamorous" yet? If you weren't before, you should be by now).

Oh and also. Today at work, I helped six different kids find Garfield books. Like, you know, the comic strip. Did you guys know that Garfield is still the shit with the kiddies these days? I didn't. I thought Garfield had peaked in the early 80s. My friend in 5th grade, Kari, rode high on popularity that year based purely on her ability to draw a perfect Garfield on command. And here it is, years later, and the kids mob the comic section when the Garfields are shelved. (...Glamorous...)

You know what else? I often eat lunch at my desk. So do my colleagues. This causes us to constantly be telling each other "I'm going on a break." And for the life of me, I cannot utter the words "on a break" without wanting to yell it like Ross and Rachel.

Oh and furthermore on this string of nonsensical gibberish that you've gotten sucked into reading, was I the only one who was creeped out by that strange choir on the Oscars that sang in sound effects? I still can't quite figure out why, but that seriously scared me.

Still singing that Fergie song? I thought so.

My week is scattered right now, people. I don't know if I can muster up a good post this week (see Exhibit A, above). Why don't you all de-lurk and email me some questions? I know you're out there. I see your hits on my site meter every week. Go ahead, muster up your inner Barbara Walters and ask me a little something something. Because I really have nothing to say, for once in my life. So, it's all on you. What do you want to know about Librarian Girl? Put it in the comments or email me at librarian.wonder@gmail.com

See how I turn this around and make it about you having to write something?

This is a belated Valentine's list of things I've been loving lately. Sort of along the lines of Oprah's Good Things. No, wait, Oprah doesn't have Good Things, that's Martha. Oprah is Favorite Things. I think. I can't really keep that straight. Whatever. Let's just say that this is a list of Librarian Girl's Good Nice Lovely Damn Fine Things. And what an eloquent preface to it, if I do say so myself.

1. I saw this episode of Star Trek, The Next Generation the other day, and I noticed that Captain Picard sometimes greets people like this: "REPORT!" No hello. No hey, tell me what's new. No what's up. Just barking out..."REPORT!" I adore this. Next time you want to greet someone, yell "REPORT!" in their face. Preferably with an English accent. It's sexy when he does it.

2. I love the sentence "I shit you not." In response to "really?" or "no way!" or "for reals?" There's something vaguely Shakespearean about that word order, which, when combined with the cussing, adds up to beauty. Heart it.

3. Nordic Boy has the most creative nicknames for me that I never tire of hearing. "Pass the salt, Sweetneck." "Come over here, Sexylocks." "How are you, Smooch-knuckle?" They just roll out, a never-ending stream. Better than a sonnet, I tell you. So, be creative with your nick-namery, my Pretty Lobes out there.

4. When Biology Girl and I call each other on the phone, we can immediately start talking, almost in the middle of a thought, and the other person will totally understand what is being said. For example, the other day, I picked up my phone and she yelled "whoo-hoo!" instead of saying hello. Because I had done something that day that was woo-hoo-worthy. And she knew that, and was calling to express the Love. It's no "REPORT!" but it was still nice.

5. And, speaking of talking on the phone, I, amongst my closest loved ones, have this tendency to answer the phone like an old man. "Yyyyelloh!" is what I belt out. I find this funny. Every time I do it, I find it funny. So it's probably more like this: "Yyyyelloh!...hee hee hee." I imagine myself wearing a big medallion and tinted eye-glasses, like Elliot Gould in Ocean's Eleven. I don't expect you to understand this. It's my own brand of hilarity. Maybe the French would think it's funny. Me and Jerry Lewis. Huge in France. Yyyelloh!...hee hee hee.

6. How ballsy is it for Vera Wang to try and tell us that we need to buy a mattress with her name on it? Way ballsy. Wait, this is a list of things I love. Not things that are stupid. Although, granted, often those are the same things, so it can be hard to keep track.

7. There's a re-mix out right now of that Justin Timberlake song "My Love," where, instead of saying "Because...I can see us holding hands..." etc, he says "be-be-be, be-be-be-be-becaaaaaaause." Have you guys heard this? Now, every time Nordic Boy asks me why something is, I just say "be-be-be, be-be-be-be-becaaaaaause." It's such a joy living with me and not annoying in the slightest, can you tell?

8. Because of the gorgeous Tivo device that lives with me in my home, I don't really see commercials very much any more. However, in the past couple of weeks, I have seen two that are worth noting. First, there was a promotion on some channel where they were going to play all of these Patrcik Swayze movies back to back all weekend. Why one would want to do that is another topic for another day. However, the commercial for this event featured an announcer voice of the monster truck variety screaming "SWAYZE GONE CRAZY!" a bunch of times. Can I just say that that needs to be celebrated, perhaps with its own holiday? How have I lived my whole life without the phrase "Swayze Gone Crazy"? How?

9. Ridiculous commercial #2. There was a promotion on Spike TV (that bastion of high art that is basically the Ultimate Fighting Channel) for re-runs of CSI called "DEATH BY SEX WEEKEND." I really have no commentary to add to this.

10. Neighbor B's dad doesn't say "jist." As in "you get the jist of what I'm saying." He says "jizz." Honestly, he really does. I don't know what kind of regionalism that is, but he honest to god, with no trace of humor, says "you get the jizz of what I'm saying." I shit you not.

In 7th grade choir, we sometimes had a sub, Mr. Beemer. Mr. Beemer was well-known for sitting in his office all hour, while the class went berserk in a Jack-the-pig-hunter sort of way. People would run around, playing tag on the risers or wrestling amongst the folding chairs, pummelling each other in that fun-but-actually-very-mean way that middle schoolers can have. Or, if you were like me, you would sit there and talk with friends, write notes, or flirt across the room. I give you the following example..

So, there I sat that day, talking to my friends. As we talked, we all periodically looked over at 7th-grade cutie Seth and giggled audibly, just, you know, to make a point.

As I was talking, all of a sudden...ping! Something hit me on the shoulder. I looked back. I couldn't figure out what it was, but oh my god, Seth was LOOKING in our general direction. This was big news, because cool boys were always stand-offish. They didn't LOOK at anyone. They glanced, maybe. They looked bored and let their eyes pass over you, through you. They didn't LOOK. But there he was. Looking. I turned back around, and I'm sure I did something extremely subtle like squeal "ohmygod!" and clap my hands together. I'm not proud of this, people. I'm just being real here. This is who I was in 7th grade.

Ping! Something else hit me. What the hell? I turned around, looked on the floor, and what did my little eyes spy? M&Ms. Someone was throwing M&Ms at me. I looked up, and there was Seth, looking back. Could it be? I turned back around and alerted my friends. They kept an eye out, so the next time one of them hit me, they saw it. It was Seth. Be still my beating heart.

As the pelting continued, the pile of M&Ms around my chair started to collect. And this is what became apparent. They were ALL GREEN. Seth was picking through his little bag of M&Ms, and getting the green ones out to throw at me. Because, you know. Green M&Ms. Wink wink.

I ask you to please tell me what 7th grade brain could come up with a gesture more funny than that? Seriously, if Margaret Mead was studying the sexuality of American kids being struck dumb by their own puberty, she would find no better archetype of behavior than this. Am I right or am I right?

And, to show you that I was not above this M&M affection/aggression construct, I will reveal that I did not just keep giggling and being pelted. I started picking up those M&Ms and throwing them back. And, in this way, Seth and I got to interact. We didn't actually talk, of course. Because that would have been too much. But we had a green M&M fight, and felt our hormones surging through our charged up adolescent bodies. How sweet it was.

When I was a senior in high school, I felt like I ruled the world. Totally indestructable was I, full of hope and optimism and strutting around my town like I owned everything in it. Everything I did was fun and exciting and felt new, and I was brimming over with life. It was in this state of mind that I applied to a job at the hospital where I was born. I needed extra running-around money, and what better way to line the pockets of my acid-washed jeans than to do a little office work for the local hospital? File some papers, answer some phones, chat with the other workers in the office. Like the rest of my life at that point, it was perfect. I set it up, and showed up to the Records Office on my first day.

"Hi, welcome! Let me show you to your desk."

This was a thrilling sentence to me, as any job that I had ever had until this point had never involved anything called "your desk." I got a desk! Mine! I immediately began fantasizing about myself at my own desk, in a cute 40s-esque pencil skirt with Lauren Bacall hair and back-seamed nylons. I decided I would put a fresh flower on my desk each day that I worked, and I hoped that I would be lucky enough to have a sassy desk neighbor who would crack jokes with me and give me advice about boys.

"Follow me please."

I don't remember who this disembodied voice that I keep quoting belonged to. I remember she was female, and my supervisor, and that she seemed nice enough. I wish I could remember more about her so that I could piece together the kind of person that would put young, fresh-faced me in the position that she did. Because, you guys? It was messed up.

We got in an elevator and she pushed the button for the lowest level ever created. It was like, a sub-sub-basement. I figured my fantasy desk would most likely not have a window nearby, but I kept the faith. I was still hopeful.

The doors opened, and I swear to you, I was in hell, people. We entered a gigantic room, with no overhead lights. There were cubicle walls as far as the eye could see. The only lights in the entire room were from little desk lamps that were placed on each desk in each cubicle. As the disembodied supervisor led me through the maze of cubes, I peered into each. There sat sallow-faced workers, typing on computers, the green glow of the screens (this was back in the day when computers were all black screens with green letters like in the Matrix) illuminating their blank faces. There was no talking. There was no sunlight. There were no fresh flowers and Lauren Bacall hairdos.

"This is your desk. Have a seat."

I sat in my little cubicle, in front of my little computer screen, and looked at the tall stack of folders next to my keyboard that reached well above my head.

"Each of these is a patient folder of a deceased patient. You'll just take each folder, look up that patient's name in the computer files, and find the field that says 'status.' And all you do is change whatever is in that status field to a 'd.' D for deceased."

Oh yes. You heard that right. Old Disembodied was telling me that my job was to sit there and look up all these dead people and then change their active records to inactive by typing in a little d. For deceased. D for Deceased! Did Cookie Monster ever sing a song like that? "D is for Deceased, and that's good enough for me"? I don't think so. Because it's not good enough for me. In fact, I can counter that statement with a whole lot of other D statements. Like D is for Damn, that's fucked. Or D is for Dude, are you shitting me?

Anyhow, with those instructions, Disembodied walked off and left me there. And I, although a product of parents who taught me never to take any shit from anyone at any time, put my head down and got to work. I don't know why I didn't object to the fact that this was not what I agreed to do when I applied and accepted this job. I was a very strong-willed 17-year-old who had lived on her own and fended for herself many a time, but something about the environment was overwhelming. I just forged ahead and started in on those folders. Not too far into this project, as I looked at the names of these faceless people and officially switched their status from alive and kicking to dead as a...dead guy, a thought occurred to me. A thought that was even more horrifying than the task at hand. What if I came across a name of someone I knew? My city was not tiny, but it was interconnected enough that I could imagine such a thing happening. This thought put me over the creep-out line. I called my boyfriend on the phone that was thankfully on my desk.

Me: (whispering) Hey. It's me. You've got to come pick me up.Him: Why? What's wrong? I just dropped you off an hour ago.Me: I can't do this! I have to look at dead people's files!Him: What?Me: I can't talk about it right now. Can you just come and get me?

And he did. I just walked right out of there. I wish I could say that I never went back, but I did. Every day for about two weeks. I never could finish a shift there though. I always, always bailed early. And I never took myself home, or called my parents. I would call my boyfriend, who would ride up on his motorcycle, and I would get on the back and we would ride the fuck out, usually way too fast. Looking back, I think I needed this dramatic exit each day. Something to remind me that I was young, cocky, and indestructable. Something like grabbing onto my boyfriend with my arms and knees from the back of a speeding motorcycle. Something to remind me that I was seventeen and life was delicious. That was the statement I needed. D is for delicious.

Because the word "man" up there? In the first part of the sentence, I said it normally. The second time I said it, my voice went all weird. It was somewhere between Barry White and Eartha Kitt, the way I said it. I growled it out, like the big world-class lunatic that I am.

Me: You know, think about it. He was a man. A very cute man. But he just wasn't...a MAN.

There it was again. I didn't even know what I was saying, and why the hell I kept channeling Catwoman. This time I even clenched both of my fists as I said it. I maybe even drooled a little.

Him: What are you even saying? What's the difference between a "man" and a "MAN"?

Me: Oh come on. You know. A MAN.

Him: Just repeating it doesn't really tell me anything. And what's with that voice?

Me: It's just. Hard to explain. But there is a big difference between a man and a MAN.

Him: Oh my god, you have to stop saying MAAAAN like that. You need to explain that immediately because you are being scary.

Me: Like you. You're a MAN.

Him: But not a man?

Me: Exactly. You're just so...so... you're a MAAAAN.

Him: Holy shit. That is freaky.

Me: Do you really not understand me?

Him: I guess I kind of get it. You think I'm attractive, so that makes me a (sigh)....MAAAAN.

Me: NO. That's not it at all!

Him: Gee, thanks a lot.

Me: No, darlingest, I didn't mean it that way. Just because someone's a man and not a MAN doesn't correlate to hotness. It's just a different kind of hotness.

Him: You are totally not making any sense at all.

Me: Ok, like...Russell Crowe is a MAN. George Clooney is a MAN. You know...

And people, this is where I started to do this ridiculous interpretive dance. Like a strange cavewoman grabbing onto a brontosaurus shank and doing a yummy-yummy two-step.

Him: Whoa. What is happening to you?

Me: I'm trying to describe the difference between a man...and a MAN.

Him: By doing the mambo?

Me: Ok look. A man can be totally hot. Like Jude Law. Or Anderson Cooper. Or Orlando Bloom. But a MAN...that's just another thing altogether. It's someone you can CLIMB. Someone that will just clear off a table and have you right there. Like Clive Owen.